


Flush

by blueskypenguin



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskypenguin/pseuds/blueskypenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The rest of the guys are watching, this being the closest thing to a prediction of air prowess as they could get right now. Money was exchanging hands off the table, under it and over their heads, all on Goose's watch. At least his RIO was giving him good odds.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flush

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here on 14th Jan 2012: http://top-gun-kink.livejournal.com/392.html?thread=7816#t7816
> 
> I wrote this part, and another anon continued when I got side-tracked with other things. Set at an indeterminate, pre-accident time at Top Gun.

He had a full house and he was untouchable. Alright, so Maverick knew he wasn't exactly untouchable, but the chances of Ice showing four of a kind or a straight flush that didn't inclue the last jack in the pack or a six were slim. He had a winning hand and he fucking knew it, but Ice...

Ice didn't even look ruffled.

They were the only two left in this last hand, and Mav still wasn't sure of the other pilot's tell; he'd been using the time to unabashedly study Kazansky's face for every twitch and suppressed tic, and still zero. The guy real was a cool customer, and for all Mav knew, he was holding nothing or everything.

The rest of the guys are watching, this being the closest thing to a prediction of air prowess as they could get right now. Money was exchanging hands off the table, under it and over their heads, all on Goose's watch. At least the fucker was giving him good odds.

"C'mon, Mav, what's it gonna be?" Slider was an obnoxious asshole, sat straddling a chair to Ice's right. "We ain't got all night for you to make a move just so Ice can get you on your ass."

Ice blinked.

He fucking blinked, and Mav knew he had the best hand of all. "Looks like I raise my ass then."

The guys laughed, but Ice's stare burned into his; when Ice hadn't said a word for almost a full minute, an uncomfortable, anticipatory hush fell over the room. Goose clapped a hand on Maverick's shoulder and squeezed, watch what you're doin' here Mav, you're comin' in low, but Mav knew he had the shot.

Ice smiled, teeth showing wide and his posture relaxed, "I call."

Mav knew in that instant, knew that actually no, he didn't have the shot, the kill wasn't his, and Ice was going to take his prize.

Shit, he'd fucked up.

He should've expected no less; he laid out his three jacks and two sixes, and watched as Ice laid out a Royal Flush, a span of clubs from ace to ten, the last traitorous jack of the deck frowning up at Mav judgementally. That'll teach you to be reckless, it said.

Maverick laughed and shrugged and watched the winners take their bills from Goose's efficient grasp; he stood and shook Ice's hand and congratulated him loudly on a hand well-played; and he let the other pilot pull him into back-slapping hug, murmured words booming over the raucous aviators:

"Twenty-one hundred, my place. That ass is mine, Mitchell."


End file.
